Our Story

About Us: A Grandson's Promise

Every summer, I can still smell the rich earth and ripe tomatoes from my grandmother's garden. Her hands, weathered by decades of nurturing plants from seed to harvest, moved with a grace that seemed almost magical to my young eyes. She grew everything—towering sunflowers that made me feel small, sweet corn that we'd shuck together on the porch, and her pride and joy: the most perfect tomatoes you've ever seen.

But it was her salsa that made our house the neighborhood gathering place. Every August, Grandma would spend days in her kitchen, transforming her garden's bounty into mason jars filled with chunky, vibrant salsa that tasted like pure summer. The recipe was hers alone—a secret blend of her homegrown tomatoes, peppers, onions, and cilantro that she'd perfected over forty years of gardening.

I was named Blake, after my great-grandfather who first taught her to garden during the Great Depression. "Blake," she'd say, her eyes twinkling as she handed me a warm tomato straight from the vine, "this is how we take care of ourselves and the people we love."

As I grew older, I watched arthritis slowly steal the strength from those magical hands. The woman who could spend entire afternoons deadheading flowers and pruning roses began to struggle with the simplest tasks. Her grip weakened. The tools that had been extensions of her soul became instruments of frustration and pain.

I'll never forget the day she looked at her overgrown tomato plants with tears in her eyes and said, "Blake, I think this might be my last garden." She was only 74, but her hands simply couldn't squeeze the pruning shears anymore. The disease had won.

That final summer, her tomatoes went unpruned. The plants grew wild and unruly, producing small, disappointing fruit. There was no salsa that year. Or the next. Or ever again.

Grandma lived six more years, but she never gardened again. Six years of summers without her salsa. Six years of watching her stare longingly at the abandoned raised beds from her kitchen window. Six years of a woman who had fed her family and friends for decades having to accept store-bought tomatoes that tasted like cardboard.

I often wonder what those six years could have been like if she'd had the right tools. If something as simple as an electric pruner could have given her back her independence, her joy, her purpose. How many more jars of salsa could we have shared? How many more summers could I have learned from her wisdom?

That's why I started this company. Not just to sell tools, but to give people back their time, their independence, their ability to nurture what they love. Every electric pruner we sell represents another grandmother who can tend her roses, another grandfather who can maintain his fruit trees, another person who refuses to let arthritis write the final chapter of their gardening story.

Grandma's garden is gone now, but her spirit lives on in every customer who writes to tell us they're back to growing their own tomatoes, in every photo of a perfectly pruned rose bush, in every story of someone who thought their gardening days were over but found a way to keep going.

I can't bring back my grandmother's salsa, but I can make sure that other families don't have to lose theirs. That's not just our mission—it's my promise to her memory.

— Blake

P.S. If you knew my grandmother, you'd understand why I still buy the ingredients for her salsa every August, even though I've never quite figured out her secret. Some things are worth keeping alive, even imperfectly.